


Storyline We Write from the Same Bed

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Comfort Sex, Community: wrestlingkink, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Backrub?” he asked, lips pressed to the skin beneath Roman's ear.  “You're wound too tight.”  He worked fingers hard into the knotted muscle of Roman's neck to emphasize his point. </p><p>Dean and Roman in the hours after Royal Rumble 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storyline We Write from the Same Bed

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: _After the Royal Rumble, Roman's feeling pretty down, even though he won, so Dean decides to make him feel better with a massage and lots of sex._ at the [ wrestling kinkmeme ](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org). C:

It was always pretty deep into the dark, cold part of Monday morning before they got back to the hotel after a pay-per-view, but Roman was even later than he'd figured on, and Dean was beginning to regret giving in to his request to head back to the room ahead of him.

He was bored, or he called it boredom, anyway: that little itch that started between his shoulder blades and spread out under his skin when he was on his own without a project for very long. And he was impatient to start celebrating with Roman. It'd been a long, weird fucking year since the last Rumble: going into business for himself, only to have Roman eliminate him and Seth both at a stroke; all those months afterward, him pressing buttons and Roman detonating but never leaving; patching up the Shield, owning Evolution right up until Seth... And after, just the two of them, through beatings and bad matches and betrayals (by Seth over and over again, by Roman's own body), holding each other up, keeping each other from drowning in the Authority's bullshit. Until tonight, united – at least until he hadn't been able to squirm out of that last fucking chokeslam – even when it was supposed to be every asshole for himself.

Philly had always been good to him, even through the days when he'd been more mangy street-dog than real, live boy, but he'd heard it the moment Bryan's feet hit the floor: the sick, toxic silence of a dead house. The crowd had coughed up a few isolated pops – one of them for him, and he'd be full of shit if he said that hadn't felt good in the moment – for the last half of the match, but mainly, they'd settled in to dissatisfied quiet, shot through with heartfelt boos.

Dragging through a match without that feedback was fucking hard, always. He'd felt the silence – the absence of the crowd's power to carry him outside himself – in the dull hammer of his heart, the rasp of air into his lungs, the jar of every blow he took or dished out. He'd caught Roman, face smeared with blood, flagging under the weight of it, too. Once, he would have extended a fist, but without their third (or, more to the point, with it reminding them both too much of that treacherous fucker) that gesture didn't carry enough juice now. Instead, he'd taken a handful of Roman's hair and hauled him in close, tipping their foreheads together to make another point of contact. To hell with the crowd and to hell with the competition and to hell with the Authority; they had each other.

He'd been hustled off to the trainers after his elimination, pride hurt as much as anything else, and only caught the end of the match on the monitors. Stolen half a minute with his brother between the trainers blotting the blood from Roman's mouth and his cousin shepherding him, punch-drunk and rattled, through a post-match interview. Come back to the room, grabbed a quick shower, and then found himself waiting, waiting, waiting, and slowly turning the in-room magazine into some kind of badass origami monstrosity just to have something to do with his hands.

So, when he finally heard a set of heavy footsteps in the hall and a keycard in the lock, he was up and at the door to meet Roman, dragging him across the threshold and into a hug even before the door swung shut behind him.

“Hi,” Roman chuckled against his ear.

“'Hi' yourself.” Dean turned him loose, let him drop his bag, and gave him a long once-over. He was in his softest old sweats, ones Dean recognized as holdovers from the Performance Center, hair pulled back neatly, and still damp from the shower. The line of his shoulders was tight and uneasy, still braced for a fight, wary of ambush in a way that put Dean on edge right along with him. Roman smiled, but it was a brittle, flickering, for-the-cameras kind of cheerfulness.

“The twins and Naomi and Dwayne are down in the bar, if you wanna grab a drink.”

“You going back down?”

“Nah.” Roman ducked his head. “Think I'm in for the night.”

“Then I'm good here, too,” he said, stepping back in to Roman's space and taking his face between his hands. “Fucking 'Mania, dude!”

Roman's smile turned into something more genuine, his eyelashes drifting down, bashful. “Doesn't feel real yet.”

He dragged his thumb along the line of Roman's jaw to the corner of his mouth, lower lip no longer bleeding but still raw. “Real as this.” The kiss he pressed to Roman's lips was a soft, light thing that, once upon a time, he wouldn't have had in him to give to anyone.

Roman sighed against him and tipped their foreheads together in an echo of the match. “You okay?”

“Yep. You?”

Roman's chuckle was hollow and humorless. Not the way he should be sounding, should be feeling, after a win this big, crowd-darling or not. “I'm a made man or something, now. Guess I have to be.”

He threaded one hand behind Roman's neck, skimmed the other down his rigid back, pressed sure fingers into his hip. “Yeah, you're not okay,” he agreed. “You're fucking amazing.”

This kiss was a little harder, not enough to draw fresh blood, but more than enough to pull a soft sound out of Roman's throat, his hands settling at Dean's waist, hot against his skin where they edged beneath the hem of his shirt.

He rubbed his hand up and back down the tense line of Roman's back. “Fucking amazing,” he repeated, forceful even though Roman hadn't responded to argue. “Gonna make you feel that way before we're done here.”

Roman did answer this time, with another kiss, one hand drifting to the small of Dean's back while the other twisted into the loose curls at the back of his neck.

They stayed that way for a while, wound up in each other, breathing together. Roman sank into every light touch of his mouth or hands, and he felt good. Strong. Slow and easy didn't used to be part of Dean's move-set, but he'd picked up a lot of new tricks over the last couple of years. Soaked up enough tenderness to be soft for somebody else now and then.

“Backrub?” he asked, lips pressed to the skin beneath Roman's ear. “You're wound too tight.” He worked fingers hard into the knotted muscle of Roman's neck to emphasize his point.

“I must be, if you're noticing,” Roman said, pinching lightly at the ticklish spot below Dean's lowest set of ribs, huffing out a soft laugh and locking an arm around him when he squirmed away. “But, yeah, I'll take you up on that.”

“Yeah, you will,” he said, grinning loose, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over Roman's pulse. “Magic hands, right here.”

Roman leaned into him for another long moment before he broke for the bed. He settled on the edge of the mattress, stretching long legs in front of him with a quiet groan. “I can see that,” he said, thumbing through the folded edges of the magazine Dean had abandoned, and looking over at him with the fond smile that always communicated _dork_ as clearly as if he'd said it out loud.

“You know what they say about idle hands,” he said, throwing light-switches until the room was illuminated by a single soft lamp. “Besides, that is easily the least destructive of a hotel room I've ever been.”

“Keep setting those high goals for yourself.”

“Lemme at those brass rings,” he said, listening for Roman's chuckle as he ducked into the bathroom. He rummaged in Roman's shower bag and came up with a bottle of coconut oil. He'd been known to give Roman shit about treating his pretty, pretty hair with the fruity stuff – what else were friends for? – but he'd been on both sides of a massage with it, and he was not-all-that-secretly glad it was always around.

When he emerged back into the main room, Roman had already shed his clothes and stretched himself across the bed on his stomach, miles of bronze skin and careful lines of black ink. He didn't turn his head or otherwise stir, even when Dean sat on the edge of the bed near his hip. It still took him by surprise, how trusting Roman was. How much Roman trusted him.

He reached out and drew his fingers through the softness of Roman's loose hair, carding through it at the base of his neck, drawing a contented hum out of his boy's chest. He smoothed it over the pillow in a dark curtain and took his hand away to uncap the bottle.

He drizzled a thin line of oil, golden and sweet-smelling, down the hollow of Roman's spine. “Any place you want I should stay away from?”

“Nah. Surprise me.”

“Okay, but remember you said that,” he teased, pouring more oil into his palm. He started with the shoulders, where Roman's tension had been most obvious to him, carried high and tight in his posture. He worked the heels of his hands into the muscle there, and used his fingers to rub small, steady circles into the place where Roman's shoulders curved into his neck.

There weren't a lot of things Dean knew – really believed in his bones, beyond any doubt – that he was great at: wrestling; mixing a Long Island; reading a road-map and finding shortcuts that actually worked. Giving a fucking great massage was one of them. Probably something about knowing how the human body worked, what connected to what, how it all fit together to take a hit or deliver one. Things that felt good connected to the ones that caused pain, sometimes opposites, sometimes not much different from each other at all.

He was thorough, working his way slowly from one knotted muscle to the next, guided by the way Roman shifted under his hands and the little sounds that escaped him as Dean hit tender spots.

“Tease,” Roman grumbled half-heartedly when he shifted his hands gradually down past the curve of his ass.

“Just 'cause you're impatient,” Dean said, cheerful and unrepentant, “doesn't mean I ain't gonna follow through. Maybe you're the one who oughta 'believe that'.” He bent his head to nip a sharp little kiss into the skin of Roman's hip and came away tasting sweet.

Roman subsided with a muffled curse that melted into a sigh as Dean kneaded into his thigh. He continued down each leg, paying special attention to the calf with the old football injury; Roman hadn't complained, but Dean knew that it tightened up on him after long matches.  Finally, he smoothed oily fingers over ankles and heels and the soles of Roman's feet, and lifted one up to brush a kiss against his instep.

Roman gave the surprised laugh he'd hoped to draw out of his chest, and craned his head around to look down the bed at Dean. His grin went lopsided, and he asked, “I tell you lately that you're kind of a freak?”

“Yuk it up, sweetheart. Gonna come up there and kiss your face with this mouth.”

Roman's smile softened even further. “Yeah, you are,” he said gravely, and turned onto his side, making room for Dean to stretch out alongside him.

There was a time, not even all that long ago, when he would have backed away from an invitation like that – people didn't offer guys like him easy or comfortable without a catch – and checked all the angles to figure out how his reaction would be used to trap or humiliate or beat him later. But, that was then and Roman hadn't been just _people_ for a while now and it didn't have to be that way anymore. Not if he didn't let it.

So, before he gave himself the chance to second-guess, he crawled back up the mattress and planted himself beside Roman, who hooked a leg over his hip and skimmed a warm hand up his back beneath his t-shirt, reeling him in like he might try to escape. Like that would be the last thing Roman wanted.

That sick, sweet ache – part nerves, part exhilaration, and more familiar all the time – settled in his chest, and Dean recognized that separation from his partner-in-crime was the last thing he wanted from tonight, too.

He dipped in for another kiss, leisurely and lingering, and let his own hand wander over the looser, oil-softened lines of Roman's back. Between the two of them, they twisted and tugged his shirt off, clumsy in a way that made him smirk against Roman's mouth when they came back together. Shirt discarded somewhere over the side of the bed, they wound around each other, the remnants of the oil spreading smooth and sweet over them both at every place they touched.

They paused, breathing together again, and pressed tight against his boy, Dean felt warm and purposeful and brave.

“You got any idea how fuckin' much I love you?” he asked, forehead tipping once more to rest against Roman's.

It wasn't the first time he'd said it – definitely wasn't a new feeling – but he usually didn't put it out there quite so baldly, mostly coming at it sideways or burying it in one of their easy jokes instead. Still, it was real, and after that ringing chorus of boos, he wanted Roman to hear it and feel it and know it tonight. Was proud to be the one to pour it out on him like so much warm oil.

“Think I might,” Roman said softly, and pulled him in closer for a moment, tilting his head up to drop a light kiss on Dean's forehead. “Love you, too.”

Dean shifted to press another lazy kiss against the underside of his jaw, Roman's neatly trimmed beard prickling at his own skin. “Whaddya feel like doing tonight?” he murmured into Roman's neck.

He felt Roman's chuckle roll through his own chest before he answered. “After all that foreplay, I was kind of hoping you'd fuck me.”

“Can do,” he said, baring his teeth against Roman's throat in a grin. He shifted his weight, Roman going with him easily, and turned them so that Roman rested on his back, Dean leaning over him, one knee slotting easily between his legs.

“Man, why are you still wearing pants?” Roman grumbled, even as he slipped warm hands beneath his waistband to tug at the offending layer of cotton separating them.

“'Cause you're real fun when you get annoyed,” he offered and leaned down to kiss Roman into the mattress for a minute before he pulled back and shucked off his sweats. He lowered himself back over Roman, skin-on-skin from the place where his hand curved against the side of Roman's neck all the way down to where Roman's ankle hooked around his own leg. “Happy?”

“Yeah,” Roman said on a sigh, and dug gentle fingers into Dean's hips, rolling his own up to try to meet them. “I really am.”

“Good,” he pronounced, and tipped forward for another kiss, this one a little sloppy and meandering, drifting from the corner of Roman's mouth, over his jaw, down his neck. He rested more of his weight against Roman – earning him a punched-out little moan from somewhere deep in Roman's chest – as he leaned over to retrieve the bottle of oil from the night-table where he'd left it. He shifted again to straddle Roman's hips, one hand braced lightly against his chest. “You deserve this. All of it.”

Roman looked away, his loose, easy smile faltering again. Unacceptable.

“Every. Last. Fucking. Bit.” He punctuated each word with a drizzle of fragrant oil onto Roman's torso, and slicked his hands over his skin again, using his own weight to work the tension from his shoulders, tracing the intricate lines of ink that swirled over one side of his chest, running eager hands over hard muscle and smooth skin. He moved steadily lower, Roman's hands going from his waist to his shoulders to twisting lightly in his hair as Dean wandered down the length of his body, pressing firm fingers and light kisses into all the exposed skin in his wake.

He ended up kneeling between Roman's legs, one oil-slick thumb following the sculpted hollow that curved along the inside edge of one hip, the fingers of his other hand stroking gingerly over the precise raised edges of Roman's surgical scars. Roman looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes as he bent one of his knees up, and Dean moved his hand to curl against the back of his leg and dipped his head to press a line of slow, thorough kisses down his thigh and into the crease of his hip.

Roman was already hard after the slow build – a prolonged tease that Dean wasn't even a little sorry about – and Dean laid another sloppy kiss against the soft skin between his hip and the base of his cock, the rich sweetness of the coconut mixing with the salt of his skin. The ragged breath Roman sucked in at the touch of his tongue sent a pulse straight down Dean's spine and to his own heavy cock.

He stretched again to reach for the bottle of oil, letting his breath ghost over Roman's hard-on, earning him a string of muffled curses and fingers scraping over his scalp and twisting into his hair. The twist became a sharper tug when he bent his head again and took Roman into his mouth.

He ran his tongue back up Roman's length, grinning around him as well as he could manage at the noise spilling out of Roman's mouth. He poured another measure of oil into his hand and drew tight circles over the skin of his brother's thighs, working steadily lower until he was pressing slick fingers into Roman.

“Dean.” His name burst out of Roman's chest on a shaky breath, and he pulled his mouth away from his cock to press another kiss against the inside of his raised knee while Roman rocked his hips back against his crooked fingers.

“That's it,” he murmured against Roman's skin. “Fuck, you're amazing.”

“Not so bad yourself,” Roman said, rough and a little breathless. “Even when you're making me crazy.”

He grinned at that. “Since you asked so nice.” He withdrew his fingers and kissed Roman's thigh again when he bucked against him with a quiet noise of disappointment.

He went for the oil once more, stroking an even layer over his own almost painfully hard shaft, and smirked at the keen interest on Roman's face as he tracked the movement of his hand.

“See something you like?” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Roman laughed at that, hearty and real and enough to land a fierce punch of satisfaction in the center of Dean's chest. “You're such a dork.”

“Dork you want to bone, though,” he said, and leaned up to brush a kiss against his boy's stomach. Roman's hand cupped the back of his head, fingers moving gently through his hair, and he tilted his face up to look at him again. “Like this okay, or you want to move?”

“I'm right where I want to be,” Roman said softly.

He shifted again, hooking Roman's knee over his shoulder, and waited for him to cant his hips to a good angle before he pushed slowly in. He gave his own uncontrolled moan at the feeling of Roman, hot and strong around and underneath him. He held himself still until Roman's other leg hooked around his waist, pulling him in closer, Roman's arms reaching up to wrap around him, drawing him down to press more of their available skin together. He started slow, pacing the rock of his hips to the pitch of Roman's body surging up beneath him, and dropped a series of trailing kisses down Roman's neck and along his collarbone.

Dean was the one with the – deserved – reputation for running his mouth, but at times like this, it was always Roman who couldn't stop talking, soft words tumbling from his lips and landing, blurred around the edges, against Dean's hair and skin. He closed his eyes and listened to Roman's vocabulary devolve into a string of _oh_ s and _fuck_ s and _please_ s and _good_ s and _Dean_ s as his breath came faster and shorter and his fingers dug into his back, grip sharp and sure and right.

The easy rhythm of their hips stuttered and sped when he reached between them and wrapped a hand around Roman's cock, slick with the remnants of oil and sweat and the precome smeared across both of their stomachs. Roman's head tipped back into the pillow, exposing more of the long line of his throat to Dean's mouth, and he let his lips drift over the hot, steady thrum of his pulse beneath coconut-sweet skin. One of Roman's hands climbed up his back, hot fingers threading into the curls at the base of his neck.

He stroked Roman's length, steady and slow, and pulled against the gentle grip on his hair, tipping his head up to chase Roman's mouth for a kiss, the broken skin of his lip leaving a sharp taste of copper on Dean's tongue, even when Roman pulled away to press his face into his neck. His moan was muffled against Dean's throat as he arched up beneath him once more and spilled over his fingers and onto both of their stomachs, something else hot and slick between them.

He kissed whatever parts of Roman he could reach without breaking away – which mostly turned out to be the side of his head, soft waves of hair snagging on the day's scruff on his chin – and bucked against him, Roman's hands stroking lightly down his back as he rode out his own orgasm.

He managed to sprawl out next to Roman instead of on top of him, and was probably a little bit too proud of that accomplishment. Roman draped an arm over his chest and a leg across his thigh. The lines of his body were loose and lax against Dean's, and he figured he was exactly the right amount of proud about that.

“You good?” he asked after they'd been quiet for a bit. They should get up, he knew – grab a shower, see if the sheets were salvageable – but he was pretty happy where he was for now, too.

Roman leaned in to drop a light kiss against his shoulder, and with a soft huff of laughter against his skin, he answered. “Amazing.”


End file.
